The Knights of the Long Table
by lizziebennetgonesolo
Summary: Gryffindor is the House of the Noble, the Chivalrous ... and the children of the predominantly Pure-blood aristocracy handpicked by Albus Dumbledore to govern Wizarding Britain. What will happen when Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born who was never supposed to attend Hogwarts in the first place, is sorted into Slytherin House and befriends a fellow prodigy, Tom Riddle? - ON HIATUS
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hello, everyone. This story is inspired by a prompt I saw on Tumblr; I will put the text and the link to the original source of the idea in my profile. I thought it was a really interesting concept and I decided to roll with it. This is (unmistakably) an AU, in which I've made Tom Riddle's birth date the 31st of December, 1979, so that he'll go to Hogwarts with Harry's year of students.**

 **If you're not fond of the villainization of Albus Dumbledore or of stories where Slytherins are the protagonists, this may not be to your taste. You have been warned.**

 **Now that that's covered, on with the story. Here's the prologue. I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know your thoughts on it in a review if you get the chance.**

 _*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*_

There is a chamber at Hogwarts whose door opens only to the contemporary Headmistress or Headmaster and their Deputy. It sits at the top of a small, unremarkable tower, out of the way of classes and dormitories, hidden in plain sight.

This is the room that houses the Book of Admittance and the Quill of Acceptance, the magical artifacts responsible for choosing future Hogwarts students, imbued with the magic of the Four Founders. The Book and the Quill sense the birth of magical children, whether Muggle-born, Half-blood, or Pure-blood, and once they are certain of a child's magical potential, the Quill inscribes their name in the Book so that when the time comes, the child will receive an invitation to attend the school.

Or so it was, for a millennium. However, in the middle of the 20th century, a certain wizard, fresh from his famous defeat of Gellert Grindelwald, became Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Albus Dumbledore was not quite the lauded hero that he made himself out to be. He was, however, a master at rewriting history and spreading distortions of fact through propaganda.

Gellert Grindelwald, although purported by Dumbledore to be a blood purist intent upon breaching the International Statute of Secrecy to establish the global dominion of the magical human population over the non-magical, had in reality been a Half-blood humanist looking to unite the magical and non-magical worlds for the purpose of mutual advancement. He had felt that the wizarding world was stagnating while the Muggle world flourished technologically in the face of great tragedy, between its wars and its diseases. Grindelwald, ever the idealist, had hoped that if brought about in the right way, a dissolution of the ISS would bring about an intellectual revolution that, through the melding together of Muggle technology and magic, would create a new set of hybrid technologies that could significantly reduce the suffering of the human race.

The man himself had been an ingenious inventor who, during his time at Durmstrang, began his own experiments with Muggle electrical technology and magic. Unfortunately, those same experiments saw him expelled in his sixth year by the traditionalist Headmaster of the time, as the elderly man and many of the staff and students viewed Grindelwald's efforts as an aberration of traditional magical values. Upon his expulsion, Grindelwald returned to Great Britain to live with his celebrated great-aunt, Bathilda Bagshot. He and Albus Dumbledore met for the first time over tea at the historian's residence in Godric's Hollow.

The two brilliant young men became instant friends, finding common interests in a passion for magical lore - specifically, for the lore surrounding the Deathly Hallows - as well as magical research and experimentation. The two spent many hours in magical libraries and bookshops, scrounging up anything and everything to do with the Hallows. Grindelwald was enthralled with the idea of harnessing the power of the Hallows to use in medicine, but Dumbledore was more interested in the power for himself, having even at that age, an extreme fear of death. They also spent a lot of time researching alchemy with Nicholas Flamel and other notable scholars of the day, performing a series of experiments with each dragon blood and Mermaid scales.

Dumbledore, however, adamantly refused to entertain Grindelwald's "perverse fascination" (as he later called it) with combining Muggle and magical means to achieve a desired end. Nonetheless, he encouraged Grindelwald to pursue his plans to breach the ISS. Dumbledore's motivations, though, were those he later associated with Grindelwald; instead of wishing to slowly integrate the Wizarding world into the Muggle world to create a hybrid society, Dumbledore wanted wizardkind to establish a system of government to control and even subjugate the Muggle population. He was irrevocably prejudiced against the Muggle world by his privileged, Pure-blood upbringing and the incident involving his younger sister, Ariana, being attacked by three Muggle boys in her youth. However, despite his strongly held convictions, Dumbledore was careful to kept his plans quiet, waiting to see how events played out. Infatuated with Grindelwald despite their differing viewpoints, he strove to earn the man's trust and approval through a romantic relationship. He remained convinced that as long as he could earn Grindelwald's love, he could convert the man to his worldview.

His plan failed utterly when put into practice. Grindelwald, who had been completely oblivious to his friend's feelings for him, tried his best to let him down gently, because although he was attracted to both men and women, Gellert Grindelwald had no inclination to enter into a non-platonic relationship with Albus Dumbledore. Despite his efforts to be kind and his sympathy for his friend's predicament, Grindelwald was unable to placate Dumbledore. The latter grew to resent the former, and resolved to work against the man who had rejected him. When Grindelwald caught wind of Dumbledore's scheming, the two had a massive fight that gradually escalated to lethal force. It culminated tragically in a wayward Killing Curse striking the angelic Ariana Dumbledore, who had been drawn outside the Dumbledore home by the bright lights in the adjacent field. Grindelwald had Apparated away on the spot, stricken by his involvement in the young girl's death. Dumbledore, convinced that the curse was Grindelwald's and not his own without any real evidence to that effect, now had even more reason to pit himself against Gellert Grindelwald.

While Grindelwald approached various parties to gain support for his cause, Dumbledore felt out those same connections in secret to see if there was any interest or potential for support for the creation of his conception of an ideal society. When it was clear that Grindelwald's ideas were receiving a more positive reaction than his own, Dumbledore had to re-evaluate his plans. Upon reflection, he decided that if his designs to breach the Statute were doomed to fail, than he would instead simply look to gain control of the magical community and keep it isolated from outside influence.

To accomplish this, he reasoned, he would need to do two things: eliminate Grindelwald and harness the power of the Deathly Hallows.

With his new goal in mind, Dumbledore turned on his once-friend, slandering him with the label of "Dark wizard", twisting the meaning of his motto, "For the Greater Good," and revealing secret plans of world domination to the Wizarding Press, allegedly spawned by Gellert Grindelwald himself. All those to whom Dumbledore had divulged his true intentions were killed by the wizard himself, who used their deaths as an opportunity to frame Grindelwald for murder. As a result, many previously sympathetic to Grindelwald's cause turned against him with the general public, and soon, he and his remaining supporters were being targeted left, right, and centre. Grindelwald had to abandon his plans and experiments and simply focus on survival.

Dumbledore capitalized on the fear and paranoia of the times to build Grindelwald up into a mythic figure in the public perception, to attribute to him a reputation of one of the Dark Lords of Old. He rallied his own group of supporters and used them to track down the Elder Wand under the pretense that it was the only weapon capable of killing Grindelwald. When he found out that Grindelwald had won the wand from the wandmaker Gregorovitch in a duel, Dumbledore knew that it was time to face his old friend and put an end to the entire affair.

In the spring of 1945, using a couple of Grindelwald's closest friends and supporters as bait, he lured his rival to Hogsmeade for their legendary duel.

Gellert Grindelwald used most of his energy early on in the confrontation, engaging not only Dumbledore in battle, but the three men who were holding his friends hostage for his foe. His diversion succeeded, and the couple had time to break their bonds and escape unnoticed; but ultimately, Grindelwald's sacrifice cost him his freedom. After an intense three-hour duel, Dumbledore managed to incapacitate Grindelwald with a simple double stunner, and with a devastating thud, the brilliant man fell to his defeat. Dumbledore had him imprisoned in Nurmengard, which was not actually a fortress that Grindelwald had constructed to hold his political enemies, as the victor claimed to all those who would believe it. In actuality, Nurmengard was an old Grindelwald family property in Germany, near the Polish border. And so, with vindictive satisfaction, Dumbledore trapped Grindelwald in his own home.

With the defeat of his greatest rival under his belt and the Elder Wand grasped in hand, Albus Dumbledore quickly ascended to power in Wizarding Britain. As the newly anointed hero of the wizarding world, he was appointed by an almost unanimous vote to the positions of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.

In Britain, from his High Seat in the Wizengamot, Albus Dumbledore restructured Wizarding Britain's legal and political systems over the course of several decades, demoting and even dismissing representatives from the Houses that disagreed with him and raising up those who stayed in his good graces. The Heads of all Houses eventually became known as Lords and Ladies and the position of "Chief Warlock" became that of "Overlord". On top of that, a new, regressive tax system was imposed on the magical populace and through it, an aristocracy was formed. It was comprised of all of the "Ancient" Houses of the Wizengamot - the wealthiest of those being, of course, the ones closest to Dumbledore. Muggle-borns having, as the name as suggests, no magical ancestry, were entirely excluded from the legal process, and even within the Ministry of Magic, could only find work in low-level or interning positions. Gradually, over the course of the latter half of the 20th century, a clear social hierarchy became established in Magical Britain, with old and mainly Pure-blooded families as the nobility, politically irrelevant or unconnected Half-bloods as the middle class, and Muggle-borns as the definitive lower and working class.

In the meantime, shortly after his duel with Grindelwald, Dumbledore was offered the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts and immediately accepted it, seizing what he saw as an opportunity to mold the minds of magical youth and gain control of the future of Wizarding Britain. While there, he grew to consider Muggle-born students a threat to the regime that he was painstakingly constructing (he was particularly fond of grumbling, "Muggles and their democracy," while alone in his study, sucking on sherbet lemons). He also viewed them as a threat to the Statute of Secrecy, which he had become committed to upholding for the sake of establishing his own power uninterrupted by external interference. Determined to do something about the student selection process, the politician-turned-Headmaster began to pay visits to the room at the top of that obscure tower during the summer holidays of 1966.

For weeks, he examined the magic behind the Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance, as well as the layers of warding that surrounded them. After much study and many, _many,_ failed attempts, Dumbledore finally managed to incorporate a layer of magic into the spellwork governing the two magical artifacts. He implemented a provision into the selection process that dictated that Muggle-born students would only be allowed to attend the school if their magical core exhibited what qualified, according to the potential scale created by the Department of Mysteries, as _"middling power or lower."_ In doing this, he reasoned, he would ensure that the next generation of Hogwarts' Muggle-born witches and wizards were entirely mediocre and thus easily controlled. Satisfied with his handiwork, Dumbledore left the tower and did not return until much, much later on in his life.

And so, magical children were born from non-magical parents each year, and each year, the Quill stayed put, and Muggle-born after Muggle-born never received their Hogwarts letter. Sadly, in more than one case, these individuals ended up exhibiting bursts of accidental magic that landed them in asylums and mental institutions for the rest of their lives.

However, even while this occurred, the Founder's Magic detected the unfamiliar, unwelcome addition to its selection formulae and processes and, almost as if sentient, it began to slowly work to counteract Dumbledore's interference in the system.

13 years later, a singular, feminine cry rang out in a hospital room in London.

Hundreds of kilometres away in Scotland, an old, battered quill began to quiver in its inkpot, as if struggling against an invisible restraint. An hour went by and still, it continued to twitch, its feather protesting weakly as it was repeatedly forced from side to side. Another hour passed and the quill's movements grew stronger, more violent, as if it could sense its magical bonds growing weaker by the minute. It continued its vigorous efforts until, finally, at the three-hour mark, it sprang free from its constraints, and the book on the table beside it flew open with a shower of emerald sparks and a resounding _thud_.

Painstakingly, in its most elegant script, the Quill of Acceptance traced a single name onto the parchment of the page entitled "Invitations of 1991." It read:

 ** _Hermione Granger_**

 _*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*TKOTLT*_


	2. Chapter 1: Why are you hitting yourself?

**A/N: Hello everyone. Thank you for the feedback you've given me concerning the prologue. I've decided to move ahead with this story. I wasn't sure exactly which direction I was going to choose for the plot, but I have that mostly sorted out - at least enough to finally continue.**

 **Without further ado, here is your chapter. Parts of it have a Matilda-esque feel to them. I hope you enjoy it, and please, if you can, leave a review or send me a PM to tell me your thoughts about the story.**

* * *

 ** _September 1987 - April 1988_**

Hermione Granger, once upon a time, had been a naïve goody-two-shoes. In fact, the authority figures in her life—her parents, teachers, and most of the other relevant adults—were all still very much under the impression that she embodied said traits.

And she did ... while they were watching. She'd mastered the act of the teacher's pet at an early age, partly due to the fact that at first, it hadn't been an act at all. Hermione had always been a precocious and inquisitive child, and so it had only made sense that she would gravitate towards her teachers to satisfy her thirst for knowledge.

She adhered to classroom rules with uncanny discipline for someone so young, unwilling to let anything come between her and the lesson of the day, the books in the library, or anything else related to her studies. In doing so, and in her social ineptitude, she managed to step on an ocean of tiny, trainer- and Mary Jane-clad toes. It hadn't been malicious on her part and many of her peers knew that on some deeply buried level, but in the end, it hadn't mattered.

You see, Hermione Granger was an oddball.

She carried the wildest head of curls out of everyone in her year, and they were frizzy, unmanageable, and gave her the air of an 8-year-old mad scientist. She had obvious buckteeth that distracted from what was actually a lovely smile. She wore starched pinafores, cable knits, crisply ironed button-up shirts, argyle, and leather boots, all starkly coloured, as opposed to the graphic tees, jeans, miniskirts, neon leggings, and football jerseys that were the preferred style of the vast majority of the student population.

She was prodigious in her intellect, the quintessential bookworm, the epitome of a geek. She was bossy and opinionated and assertive to the point of obnoxiousness during lessons. She didn't bother trying to make friends; there was no one in her classes who shared her passion for learning, and that was all she really cared about in a companion.

But it wasn't _only_ her appearance or her disposition that drew the other students' attention; no.

Strange things happened around Hermione Granger.

The grass would part ways for her when she walked around in the playground during autumn, nose planted in some gigantic tome.

Animals, especially snakes, were drawn to her like flies to honey, and she would always speak to them as though they could understand her perfectly. What's more, from their reactions, it rather seemed like they did.

And then, to boot, whenever she needed a particular book, a few sheets of paper, or a pen or pencil, they would appear somewhere she was certain she'd already checked, and there would never be a logical explanation for it because it wasn't as if any of her peers would ever lift a finger to come to her aid.

No, it was the opposite, actually; because Hermione Granger was a freak, and freaks make easy targets for vindictive schoolchildren.

One day, Hermione went to put on her boots, only to feel a strange, prickly surface where the soles should be and to hear a nauseating _squish_ as she put her weight onto one foot. When she took the boots back off and peered inside, angling them so that the fluorescent classroom light would shine into their depths and reveal their contents, she nearly screeched.

Someone had trapped upwards of twenty beetles inside of each her boots, beetles that now composed a gloopy film covering the sole of one boot and the bottom of Hermione's corresponding foot. Crushed, black exoskeletons and translucent blood tinged yellow had been visible in the viscous gunk.

She'd had to walk home barefoot in November. By the time she reached her doorstep, Hermione was hobbling in pain; her thin socks had provided very little protection from the cold pavement and icy sidewalks, and she'd gotten blisters on her heels and the pads of her feet.

And that was just the beginning.

In the months that followed, Hermione was tormented relentlessly. She was often witnessed limping out of the girls' lavatory, wincing as she adjusted her book bag on her shoulder should she be lucky enough to leave the loo with it at all (although it seemed to be one of the items that would always eventually make its way back to her, still holding her meticulous homework, pristine and intact despite having been tossed into the toilet bowls earlier the same day). The girls who cornered her and forced her into the toilet had a number of games they liked to play with Hermione, their favourite being the eternal classic: "Why are you hitting yourself?" On top of that, Hermione found all kinds of critters among her things on a near-daily basis, and when the live ones didn't seem to phase her anymore, they were substituted for dead ones, which would leave her miserable for the rest of the day. Then, she had to deal with the reality that her winter clothes were often deliberately doused with water by the time the final bell rang at three o'clock. For weeks, Hermione walked home shivering and was forced to take a warm bath upon arrival to get her body temperature back to normal and stave off hypothermia or pneumonia.

Hermione didn't tell her mum and dad about what was happening either, because at the end of the day, she was a pragmatist, and she knew that to do so would be pointless. Too many of the kids who harassed her had rich, influential parents who would protect their children and maybe even get her into trouble if she made a stink about their bullying. _No, i_ _t would just make them angry and worried,_ Hermione reasoned in regards to her parents. Besides, she thought, they were constantly busy at their practices and at dentistry conventions; in short, they were hardly ever around. They loved her—there was no doubt about that in her mind, because when they were there, they were warm and affectionate—but they also neglected her, thinking her capable enough to take care of herself without their help or supervision.

To an extent, they were right; Hermione was incredibly self-sufficient for an eight-year-old and liked to be independent, that much was true. But she was also still an eight-year-old, and in her current state, she was outnumbered, overwhelmed, hurt, and at loss for what to do.

What bothered Hermione most, however, were the disruptions her schoolmates caused in class in order to distract her from her schoolwork. She was surreptitiously pelted with spitballs and the like whenever her teacher's back was turned; those who sat behind her, no matter the class, kicked the legs of her chair and desk constantly while she was trying to work; and whenever textbook work with a partner was assigned, she was the odd one out and was forced into a group of three with two students who would invariably hog the textbook, even when they had no inclination of completing the assigned work.

All she wanted was the opportunity to learn in peace, but her peers seemed determined to make that impossible.

And the teachers; Hermione grew to despise them. In her mind, the ones who didn't know what was happening to her were incompetent idiots and the ones who knew and did nothing all the same were as good as monsters. _Who lets this happen to an 8-year-old?_ she would ask herself. _I used to look up to them. I must have been blind._

* * *

The only exception to Hermione's contempt of the school staff was a teaching assistant whom everyone called Miss Emma, although her name was really Emmanuelle Wright. She was a tall, quiet, young woman, classically beautiful with her blonde hair, warm, blue-green eyes, and delicate features. She was also the lone person in the school who seemed to give a damn about what happened to Hermione.

Her concern became apparent one day in mid-February, a couple of days after the TA had arrived at the school. Hermione's female classmates had been feeling particularly bold that morning, and so the girl in question had exited the lavatory towards the end of the lunch recess with a bloody nose and the telltale signs of a developing black eye.

Miss Emma had happened to be in the adjacent hallway and intercepted Hermione on her way outside. After she'd done what she could to help her student stem the flow of blood trickling from her nostrils, Miss Emma had looked at the girl with a speculative glint in her eye.

"Hermione," she'd said softly, "I've noticed how dedicated you are to your studies. Would it be helpful for you to have a quiet place to work at lunch?" When the pupil answered with a solemn affirmative, a small flash of triumph had flitted across Miss Emma's features. "Alright," she'd murmured. "I grade assignments in Mrs. Faulkner's classroom during the lunch recess." She paused. "Hermione, what class do you have immediately before lunch? Maths?" Another yes. "Alright. I'll come collect you there at the bell and we'll head to Mrs. Faulkner's together. She always spends her lunch in the staff room, anyways. How does that sound?"

Hermione declared her approval of the plan and the haste with which she'd done so earned a sad, sympathetic smile from the TA. Miss Emma made as if to leave and so her student started to head for the door to the playground.

"Oh, and Hermione," Miss Emma called out suddenly, stopping the girl in her tracks. Hermione tensed as a slew of anxious questions ran through her head. _Has she changed her mind? Was she making fun of me? Did I do something wrong?_

Her fears were left unrealized. Miss Emma simply quirked a brow and glanced pointedly at the ground behind Hermione.

"Isn't that your book bag?"

* * *

Just like that, for the month and a half left of Miss Emma's contract, Hermione had a sanctuary. She was no longer ambushed during the lunch period, and while she was still poked and prodded and harassed in lessons where the TA wasn't present, Miss Emma made sure that Hermione was left well enough alone in Mrs. Faulkner's class. For the first few days during which the two of them spent lunch together, they both kept to themselves, steadily chipping away at the piles of work they had to finish. Finally, though, two weeks after the arrangement had been put into place, Miss Emma spoke up about halfway into recess.

"Hermione," she said quietly. Her student looked up, feeling a hint of anxiety at the tone of the TA's voice.

"Is something the matter, Miss Emma?" she asked, subdued.

The teaching assistant sighed heavily and gave the girl a grimace. "Yes, Hermione," she replied. "But please don't worry. You haven't done anything wrong whatsoever." Hermione was taken aback by the woman's perceptiveness, and it must have showed, because Miss Emma smiled indulgently at her then. "It was written all over your face, Hermione," she'd teased her gently, "You're rather like a book that way." The TA sighed again, sobering.

"Speaking of which," she continued, "We need to have a frank discussion." She paused. "I know what's been going on, Hermione. I know how the others have been treating you." Hermione looked down at her feet, reddening in embarrassment. "No, none of that," said the TA, her voice suddenly closer, "You look at me, Hermione Granger." The young girl started at that, and when she lifted her chin, the TA was sitting at the desk in front of her, facing the wrong way round so that she could look Hermione straight in the eyes.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of. Do you hear me? Nothing," she told her pupil firmly. "You have been so brave, Hermione. They've been utterly rotten to you, and I suspect for no good reason, too. No," she said knowingly, "you rub them the wrong way because you're different. You're older than your technical age, you're brilliant, and you don't have the same interests as them; for kids like these, that's all it takes. Trust me. I know."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You know?" she asked, incredulous.

"Yes," replied Miss Emma, and her expression was deadly serious. "I was an outsider growing up, Hermione. I was almost as studious as you are—although nowhere near as brilliant—I was a gangly, awkward-looking thing, I was shy, and I was physically tiny, so I was an easy target. I got picked on for years before I finally learned how to defend myself. No one was there for me, either," said the TA bitterly, "so when I saw you with that bloody nose, and that look in your eyes that I always used to have when I looked at myself in the mirror after they'd done something to me, that look of being so _alone_ ... I just knew. I'd suspected since the first day, but that was the clincher. I want you to know, Hermione," she impressed upon the girl, a frustrated look in her eyes, "that I tried to talk Mrs. Faulkner into helping you. I really did. And I've been doing everything that I can to keep those kids off your back in her class. But she and the other teachers," she shook her head angrily, unable to continue.

"They're cowards," murmured Hermione, righteous fury swelling up in her chest, turning salt water into acid in her tear ducts. "Sorry, Miss. I know I shouldn't say that," she added, chagrined, "But they are. They're afraid of standing up to the parents and the principal. They're afraid of being sacked, and I'm the one who has to pay for it."

Miss Emma's jaw clenched, and she nodded stiffly. "Yes," she said, her voice soft not from kindness, as Hermione was used to, but from a dangerous, icy kind of anger that seemed to roil like waves in her irises. "Don't apologize, Hermione. You're absolutely right: they are cowards. And unfortunately, because I'm just a teaching assistant, I don't have the power or the sway to officially help you beyond what I've already done.

"I'm tempted to tell you that I'm sorry, because I'm angry and sad about what's happened to you and I feel frustrated and guilty that I wasn't able to convince the teachers. But it's not really my fault, and in any case, me being sorry doesn't help you, does it?"

Hermione gave Miss Emma a morose semblance of a smile. "Not really," she admitted. "Although it _is_ nice to have someone on my side."

"That's just it, though, Hermione," said the TA. "I can do more than just passively be on your side. I haven't been completely ... forthright ... with you. I had to be sure."

"Had to be sure of what?" asked Hermione warily.

Miss Emma leaned back in her seat, propping herself against the edge of the desk's surface. She whistled two notes and then a sudden, quiet pitter patter of feet became audible before she leaned down, coming back up with a chipmunk and a dormouse cradled in her hand. She cooed and crooned at them for a moment before saying to them, "Hazel, Cosette, this is Hermione, a friend of mine. Go say hello."

The two adorable rodents scampered over to the girl, sniffing lightly at her clasped hands and when satisfied by her smell, nuzzling them with their noses. Hermione couldn't help but smile and gently reach out a finger to stroke their heads. "Hello, you two. It's nice to meet you," she whispered. The two of them made a series of noises that were decidedly pleased-sounding and Hermione looked back up at her TA, stunned, as she began to understand what was happening.

As though she had read Hermione's mind and knew what she needed to see, Miss Emma looked around the class searchingly before pointing at the blackboard duster and closing her eyes. Slowly, the duster rose as though suspended on strings and moved through the open air towards the two females before settling itself down neatly in front of Hazel, Cosette, and Hermione, whose eyes were full of fear, wonder, and some undefinable but incredibly strong emotion.

"You're not alone, Hermione," murmured Miss Emma, "and you're not a freak. I don't know what this is," she gestured at the pair of animals now perched on Hermione's shoulder and nestling into her hair, and then motioned towards the blackboard duster, "but whatever it is, we both have it."

Her turquoise eyes bore into Hermione's chestnut ones. "And I can help you learn how to control it."

* * *

They wasted no time in the month they had left. Everyday at school, and even some days after school when Miss Emma didn't have to run off to her other part-time job, she and Hermione would go through exercises designed to help Hermione get to know her abilities. Miss Emma taught Hermione how to _feel_ the energy inside her, how to visualize it in her mind, how to use her imagination to picture what she wanted to do with it, and, perhaps most importantly, how to be confident enough in herself to be able to actually use her power. That was Hermione's greatest weakness, Miss Emma had told her gently: her low self-esteem.

"You have so much potential, Hermione," the TA said to her. "You're a brilliant student, you have an innovative mind, and you have drive unlike that anyone I've ever met. Have some faith in yourself. _Trust_ me. You are perfectly capable of doing this."

Hermione bit her lip uncertainly. "How did you learn all of this, Miss Emma?" she asked the TA.

The young woman smiled mischievously. "I taught myself, Hermione. And you know, in a way you've been doing it too, subconsciously. From what I can tell, your ability responds instinctively to your wants and needs. I'd be willing to guess that your connection with animals is so strong because you've been feeling lonely and you're in need of companionship, so your energy attracts friendly critters like those guys." Two glanced over to Hazel and Cosette, who were chasing each other around on the teacher's desk. The sight drew a pair of smiles. "And then there's the matter of your belongings. You want them back the way they were before your bullies got their hands on them, and that's always how they turn up in the end. It's incredible, really.

"You use your ability without even thinking about it. So now," she leaned forward, eyes dancing, "just imagine what you can do if you do think about it, if you harness that amazing brainpower of yours." Miss Emma beamed at Hermione, who was finally starting to grin and whose eyes looked suspiciously wet.

"You'll be unstoppable, Hermione."

That day was the first day that Hermione managed to deliberately move an object with her mind. It was a plain, yellow, number 2 pencil, and it wavered a couple of times in its path, but eventually, watched with bated breath, it positioned itself directly above Hermione's outstretched hand and dropped lightly into her palm.

Without even really thinking about what she was doing, Hermione put the pencil down on a random desk and then turned, flung her arms around Miss Emma's waist, and buried her side of her face in the TA's emerald blouse. Miss Emma froze in shock for a split second before a slow smile spread across her face and she returned the hug, mussing Hermione's hair gently.

"You see?" she said quietly. "You can do this, Hermione."

* * *

Much too quickly, on an unusually sunny day in April, Miss Emma's contract was up and she was required to leave the school to move on to her next placement at St. Mary's Primary School in Ireland.

When they met at lunch one last time that day, both the mentor and the pupil were tearful. They had become very close during their time together, and their relationship had evolved past teacher and student and had become more like a bond between sisters.

"I'm going to miss you so much, Emma," confessed Hermione; the TA had eventually insisted that her young friend drop the title.

"I'm going to miss you too, Hermione," Emma replied sadly. "But you know what? We'll still see each other from time to time. You have my phone number now; you can call me in Ireland whenever you like, okay? Even if it's two in the morning. You need me, you call. And I _will_ come and visit you when I can, alright?"

Hermione smiled at her and nodded vigorously. Emma laughed gently at her eagerness before her features hardened around the edges with seriousness.

"Now. Before I go," continued Emma, "we need to talk about how you're going to handle your classmates now that I'm not around to lend a hand."

Hermione's expression darkened instantly; her dainty eyebrows pulled together in frustration and her smile became a pout. "Yes," she agreed, and then admitted, "I'm afraid, Emma. What if I give too much away, or I can't even access my abilities? What happens then?"

"Calm down, Hermione," chided Emma. "You've very nearly surpassed me in terms of your power and your capacity to manipulate it into doing your bidding." She smiled warmly at her protegee. "As long as you keep your head and use the abundance of common sense that I know you have in there," she tapped Hermione's forehead with her index finger, "you'll be just fine.

"Don't be afraid to do what's necessary to defend yourself, Hermione. And I mean that when it comes to your teachers too, not just the kids," clarified Emma, somewhat to Hermione's surprise. "Do what you have to do. But try not to go _too_ far beyond that," she suggested. "Don't get me wrong—I don't care a whit what happens to those horrible children or to my ex-colleagues. I do, however, care about you; and I'd hate for you to get into trouble for hurting them too badly. I'm not saying that you would purposefully do that, Hermione," Emma reassured her, cutting Hermione off as her face scrunched up with worry and her mouth dropped open to speak. The TA added as an afterthought, "Although, you may well have reason to. And I can't honestly say that I would judge you if you did.

"But nonetheless, my point is this. It seems as though you're like me in that when you're feeling strong emotions, it's harder for you to control yourself and to remember to be careful about how much power you use. So, yes, defend yourself," said Emma firmly, "and scare them into leaving you alone, even, if you can. But Hermione—be careful."

Hermione nodded resolutely. "I promise, I will be," she told Emma, who then gathered her up into a tight hug.

"Good," said the teaching assistant, and Hermione could hear the strain in her voice as she fought back surfacing emotions. " _Good_."

* * *

Once Miss Emma had left, it didn't take long for the lunchtime intimidation to start up again. In fact, it only took one morning of class.

As Hermione was leaving Maths and heading towards the cafeteria the day after Miss Emma's departure, she was blocked by Vanessa Simpson, one of her most frequent and vicious tormentors, and she felt four bodies flank her from the sides and from behind—undoubtedly some of Simpson's cronies.

"Oh, Granger," crooned the burly girl in mock sympathy, her dull, grayish eyes gleaming with spite, "Has your bodyguard up and left you? I guess _Miss Emma_ found out how much of a loser you really are and decided to get away while she still could. I mean, you're a clingy little thing, aren't you, Granger? She was probably afraid of turning into a creep like you by association."

Although Simpson's comments annoyed and even angered Hermione, for once, she wasn't afraid. She felt oddly separate from the spectacle that Simpson was trying to orchestrate.

"I'm surprised that you're smart enough to know a word like 'association', Simpson," Hermione bit back automatically, although she stiffened in surprise as the bold words slipped seemingly of their own accord from her mouth.

Vanessa Simpson's eyebrows shot up in incredulous fury and her cheeks flushed, turning her complexion ruddy. "Ooooh," the wretched girl hissed, "So she's finally found her tongue after all this time. Hey, girls—I think Granger here needs a reminder of who she's speaking to, whaddaya think?" Her little posse tittered encouragements, and Hermione felt tempted to roll her eyes. _Sycophants, the lot of them,_ she thought to herself as she allowed the gaggle of girls to drag her into the lavatory.

When they were all inside and Simpson had turned the lock on the door, Hermione attempted to elbow the girls gripping her arms, all the while staring at their ringleader in quiet but open defiance.

"Putting on a show, Granger?" sneered the bully. "Well, I'll show you."

She made to lunge towards Hermione, but instead of flinching away or trying to make a break for it, Hermione canted her head to the right, an eerie focus taking over her expression.

Inches away from Hermione, fist halfway to the girl's cheek, Simpson stopped dead in her tracks, encountering an unknown resistance in the air. "What the hell?" she muttered, trying to withdraw her arm and sweating as she found herself fighting an invisible force that just _wouldn't_ budge.

After a few seconds of that, during which time the other girls stared at their leader in disbelief, one of them finally spoke up and barked, "What are you playing at, Simpson?"

"I'm not _playing at_ anything! I can't bloody well move, Nichols!" the girl snapped back at her minion.

"Are you taking the mick?" one of the others demanded.

"Do I look like I'm taking the mick?" screeched Simpson. "Piss off! You have fists; why don't _you lot_ bloody beat her, already?!"

Hermione closed her eyes.

All of the sudden, the hands squeezing Hermione's arms dropped away and five sets of shrieks reverberated off the cinder-block walls.

Hermione stepped out of the circle that the girls had formed around her and watched in stony silence as they started smacking themselves and each other silly, all of them confused, angry, and terrified.

"What the hell is happening?" screamed Simpson as she backhanded herself.

"I have no idea," Hermione remarked loudly and clearly, arranging her features into an impression of perplexed fascination. _"Why are you hitting yourselves?"_

Five sets of eyes snapped to Hermione's face.

"This is you, isn't it, Granger?" snarled Simpson, the others shouting in agreement.

"Of course it isn't," Hermione retorted, her expression blank. "Don't be ridiculous, Simpson. How could I _possibly_ be doing this?" She quirked an eyebrow. "I think you've all gone round the bend, personally."

Simpson shrieked again and began cursing Hermione with every foul word she knew.

"I'll get you for this, Granger," she threatened. "We'll go straight to Mrs. Hammond; she _loves_ us and she _hates_ you, and—"

"Oh really, Simpson?" interrupted Hermione, and just like that, it was her turn. A switch had flipped and a chill now suddenly radiated off of the younger, smaller girl that the others had made into a victim for months on end.

The tables had turned.

"So you're going to go up to a teacher and say, 'Sorry sir, sorry ma'am, but my friends and I were busy waling on a girl in the loo and then suddenly, we couldn't hit her anymore and instead we couldn't stop hitting ourselves,'?" Hermione's words were icy and sharp, lashing at the girls like icicles turned to makeshift daggers. "Or maybe you'll tell her that I somehow managed to overpower the—oh let's see—one, two, three, four, _five_ of you?"

Hermione tilted her head slightly further to the right and all five girls felt their legs give out; they had no choice but to fall to the ground, unable to break the fall with their hands or forearms. Hermione heard the crack of a nose breaking and felt a surge of illicit pleasure.

"No one will ever believe you," Hermione told them coldly. "Not you, Simpson, and not any of your equally pathetic, _disgusting_ friends."

She walked a few paces and then crouched down by Simpson's ear, but she made sure to speak loudly enough so that her voice would carry to all of her would-be assailants.

"Let's make this a lesson for you, hm?" she said with malicious false cheer before her voice oozed black as she spat her next words.

"Don't you dare come near me again, or a few scrapes, some bruises, and a broken nose will be the least of your worries. And the next time you consider picking on someone, maybe think twice about it." She paused. "Somehow, though, I doubt you have the capacity for that."

Hermione stood, and as she surveyed the lot of them with a combination of pity and disdain, she relinquished her hold on the girls and left them to lick their wounds on the damp, filthy floor with a cool, "Have a good day, ladies." She unbolted the lavatory door and pushed it open with a wave of her hand, smirking slightly when it banged into the wall with a loud _thud_ as she made her way out.

 _I'm never going to be helpless again,_ Hermione vowed to herself giddily, adrenaline sprinting through her veins in a euphoric, dizzying rush.

Walking down the hallway punch-drunk from her own hormones while she listened to the groans of her tormentors echoing pitifully from the loo, Hermione had never felt more invincible.


	3. Chapter 2: Tea with the Grangers

**A/N: Hello, everyone. I am back with a new chapter after a hard couple of weeks; I'm glad to be writing again. Thank you to all those who have reviewed, followed and favourited this story; I am so glad to have you along.**

 **Please be patient with me, readers. I am going through a very difficult and busy time right now.**

 **In spite of that, I do have this installment ready, and so: onward we go. It's a little shorter than I intended, but I have a feeling that the next chapter will make up for it. ;)**

* * *

 **April-June, 1988**

News of what had happened to Simpson's little gang spread quickly, and although the teachers thought the story was a ridiculous fiction—just as Hermione had predicted—the students were not so quick to discount it. No, they watched Granger carefully, and when the teachers weren't around to witness her doe-eyed complacency, there was a new-found confidence about her, a smugness in the set of her mouth. The more shrewd of her peers decided that it was best just to leave her alone; it seemed that Granger had adopted a "you don't bother me, I won't bother you" policy. As for the less shrewd—well; a carefully-timed accident or two alongside a few pointed hints at their being not-so-accidental was enough to hammer home to the miscreants that staying away from Hermione Granger was in their best interest.

As for Hermione herself, she was ecstatic. Left alone by her classmates at last, she was free to listen and participate in lessons without distraction, to roam the hallways without fear, and to find places out of sight where she could practice using her ability without worrying about anyone coming to bother her or stumbling in on her secret.

Hermione was making good progress in that regard, albeit slow progress. She was quickly learning that although, as Emma had guessed, strong emotions did make controlling her powers more challenging, it also happened that a lack of emotion made it difficult for her to access her powers in the first place.

On a bad day, a calm Hermione could stand for fifteen minutes, furrowing her brow so hard that droplets of sweat were forced from its pores, with not even a spark to show for it. An emotional Hermione, often brought on by calm Hermione's lackluster results, could heave a sigh that would warp into a gust of wind, blowing a classroom's desks to the walls on either side of her limp hands. Either way, it was hard, exasperating work that demanded persistence (borderline stubbornness, really) and intense focus. Thankfully, Hermione had both in droves.

* * *

When she wasn't working on one thing or another at school, Hermione made good on her word to Emma and the two of them succeeded in their efforts to stay in touch. In fact, they spoke over the phone several times a week, and Emma made sure to come back from Ireland to visit Hermione at least once a month on a weekend of mutual convenience. The latter's parents were thrilled that their daughter had found a friend in, as Hermione had phrased the description (much to their amusement), "such a kind and intelligent young woman as Emma", and on one of the rare weekends when the Doctors Granger weren't otherwise occupied, they invited the teaching assistant to tea.

And so, on a Saturday evening in early June, there was a knock on the door of the Granger household; hurried footfalls thundered down the stairs as Hermione raced to answer it. Safe in the knowledge that her parents were occupied on a business call in the other room, the eager girl waved her hand and the door unlatched itself, gently swinging open. As she descended the final few steps, Hermione watched as, clad in a pale turquoise tea dress embroidered with white grapevines and carrying a box of chocolates in one hand and a bottle of white wine in the other, Emma took a wary step into the foyer, eyes scanning the room for something or someone. When her gaze met Hermione's, the teaching assistant's face lit up in a radiant smile that was mirrored by her young friend.

Hermione flew the rest of the way into Emma's outstretched arms, nearly winding the TA with the force of her hug. Somewhat breathlessly, Emma laughed, draping her arms loosely around her former student, mindful of the items she was still holding.

"Careful, Hermione," she teased the girl softly, "I'd hate to drop the wine and have it spill all over the carpet. That wouldn't make the best first impression, would it?"

Hermione hopped back, her cheeks turning rosy with chagrin, but her smile was unaffected. "Sorry, Emma," she said, beaming. "I'm just so glad you're here. And my parents are really looking forward to meeting you, too! They're just on a last-minute conference call; it ends at five, so it should only be—" she glanced at a nearby grandfather clock, "—fifteen more minutes or so. Can I show you to the parlour in the meantime?"

"Absolutely," replied Emma, smiling down at Hermione and tucking the box of chocolates under her other arm in order to take the small hand that offered to her. "Lead the way." She instantly found herself being tugged forward and had to bite her lip to keep from chuckling at the young girl's zeal as she let herself be pulled along. She had already seen the parlour, of course—Hermione had given her the grand tour the first time she'd been to visit the Granger's residence—but she gladly allowed her protegee to play her role as hostess.

"You look lovely by the way, Hermione," Emma told her as they walked together. "I adore that dress on you, and the French braid suits you very much."

"Thank you," responded Hermione, blushing a little bit. They'd reached the parlour, which was a well-lit room with elegant decor in pastel colours and with the odd floral touch here and there. There was a sitting area by the window looking out over the street; it consisted of a sofa, a love seat, and a pair of armchairs arranged around a coffee table.

Hermione gestured for Emma to set her hostess gifts down on a table by the door, next to a decanter of some kind of amber spirit and a few tumblers. Picking up the conversation where it had left off, Hermione told Emma, "Mum got me the dress just for today," she gestured down at the coral-and-white polka-dotted pinafore, "but the braid is actually a bit of a last resort." Emma shot her an amused, questioning look as she settled herself down on the sofa; Hermione plopped herself down beside her, and her blush darkened when she saw Emma's expectant expression.

"I tried to do my hair with...you know..." she trailed off, widening her brown eyes at Emma significantly to try to get the point across. The TA nodded her understanding while attempting to maintain a straight face in spite of Hermione's antics. _This child,_ she thought to herself fondly.

Hermione went on, oblivious to her companion's inner musings, her speech accelerating the further along she got in her explanation. "Well," she said, her lips pouting slightly, "It just ended up tangling my hair in a really complicated knot, which took me at least a half hour to get undone without," she widened her eyes again, this time adding raised eyebrows, "and by then, my hair had become a giant ball of frizz from being brushed so much. I had to take a second shower," Hermione muttered plaintively, "and I decided to save myself the trouble and do the French braid. They're actually fairly simple when your hair is as long as mine," the young girl remarked. "Of course, you can't tell the length when it's not wet or in a braid, because the curls are so tight that they make it shrink."

"I think your curls are gorgeous, regardless of whether they make your hair seem shorter," Emma interjected. "They're _you_ , Hermione." The girl shrugged and Emma clucked her tongue; the natural state of her hair was clearly a sore topic for the eight-year-old. Emma changed tactics. "Silly," she murmured. "I would love to have ringlets like yours."

Hermione looked at Emma incredulously, her eyebrows shooting up precariously high on her forehead. "You must be joking," she cried. "Your hair is perfect!"

Emma shook her head, ruefully sincere. "I do like its colour," she admitted, "but believe me, Hermione—this stuff will never curl. _Ever._ It's been as limp as straw since day one and nothing any hairdresser I've been to has changed that. But it's okay, because it's _my hair._ It's not going to change anytime soon, and besides—I've grown fond of it over the years. Hopefully, you'll come to appreciate yours in time, too," she concluded, sending a wink Hermione's way.

The young girl was trying her best to look skeptical, but there was enough doubt in her eyes that Emma knew she'd been successful in planting a seed in her protegee's head. She decided to let it be for now. Seguing away from the topic, she added with a warm laugh, "But maybe no more trying to use..." she opened her eyes as far as she reasonably could and wriggled her eyebrows, making Hermione giggle, "for your hair. At least, not until you get more of a handle on it. It sounds like trying that as an exercise might be more trouble than it's worth."

Hermione huffed, but there was no real exasperation in the sound—she was just playing now. "Well, you _might_ have a point," the eight-year-old conceded, making a point of dragging the sentence out grumpily even as her twitching lips gave her away. Emma was having none of the act and instead poked Hermione lightly in the ribs, making her shriek in surprise and indignation. Hermione was about to wage a full-on tickle war when she heard her father's laugh from the sitting room; it was the kind of artificial, hearty laugh that he used when one of his colleagues or clientele made a humorous remark that fell flat. Hermione withdrew her hand from its trajectory towards Emma's waist and sat up decidedly straighter on the sofa.

"It'll be less than two minutes now," Hermione told Emma quietly. "They must be talking to Mr. Flaherty; he always cracks a joke when they're closing things up."

Emma gave a nonchalant, "Very good," surreptitiously observing Hermione as Hermione watched the door, anxious anticipation written all over her small body; the clenched hands, crossed ankles, rigid posture, sucked-in cheeks, and the flitting eyes told all. Although Emma had already put two and two together about many aspects of Hermione's relationship with her parents, the way she was waiting for them now was another layer of insight for the TA.

 _She is paralyzed by the very **idea** of disappointing them._

Emma nodded to herself absently, mulling over the revelation while a plan began to formulate itself in her head.

She didn't have long to think on it; as Hermione had predicted, her parents had just finished with their phone call and their murmuring voices were fast approaching. After a few moments, the door to the parlour opened and a man of average height with short, curly blond hair and Hermione's smile (minus the noticeable overbite) walked into the room. He was dressed in brown oxfords, smartly pressed khaki trousers, a crisp, white button-up shirt, a pale yellow tie, and a light grey tweed blazer.

"Miss Wright," he said jovially, and the lady in question rose from her seat to shake his outstretched hand. "We've heard a lot of great things about you. It's nice to finally meet you in person."

"Please, just Emma, Dr. Granger," the teaching assistant bade of him, her tone light but warm. "And it's lovely to meet you at last."

Hermione's father was about to respond when a petite brunette in a flouncy, salmon-coloured cocktail dress with butterfly sleeves strode into the room, an elaborate tea set balanced on the tray that she carried carefully to the coffee table. Setting it down gingerly, the woman righted herself and moved back to stand beside her husband.

"Jean," said the man in question, "this is Miss Wright, though she prefers 'Emma.' Emma, this is my wife and Hermione's mother, Jean. Oh, and call me Ian." Emma was the one to extend a hand this time and Jean gladly shook it.

"Emma, it's wonderful to meet you," said Hermione's mother, her voice kind but reserved.

"The feeling is mutual, Dr. Granger," parried Emma, testing the waters.

"Oh, Jean is fine, dear," said the older woman with a slight smile. "Please, sit down."

Everyone took their seats and at Jean Granger's prompting, each helped themselves to a cup of tea, a plate of assorted nibbles from the elegant, tiered tea trays that the missus had prepared, and, in the adults' case, a glass of the white wine that Emma had gifted the Grangers. ("What a lovely vintage," Hermione's mother remarked approvingly upon her first sip.) Once Emma and the Grangers had settled back down into their seats, the idle small talk they'd been making transitioned into more meaningful conversation.

"So, Emma," said Ian Granger, clapping his hands as though to signal the change of topic. "Hermione tells us that you're teaching in Ireland now while finish your final year of university studies and your ITT."

Emma smiled politely. "Yes, that's right. I work at a private school in Belfast called St. Mary's. It's a nice placement...although I must admit that even though we've managed to stay in touch, I miss teaching your daughter on a regular basis."

Jean Granger perked up at that. "Oh?" she asked, adopting a facade of mild interest. Emma was not fooled.

"Yes," the TA elaborated, "Hermione is an exceptional student. I don't think I've met anyone quite as diligent as she is, and combined with her intellect?" She left it at that, taking a dainty sip of wine and allowing the Granger parents to read between the lines.

"Oh, well that's marvellous to hear," said Jean, clasping her hands together in enthusiasm. We knew she was doing well, of course," she carried on dismissively, "but to hear such praise from one of her educators; well, that is something!"

"I don't think 'well' and 'something' quite cover it," Emma responded, her tone still very polite but now undeniably firm. She turned to smile at Hermione, who had by that point turned beet-red. Emma gave her protégée a reassuring wink before continuing, "Perfect scores in every subject except English, wasn't it? And to be frank, that's likely just because no one ever gets a perfect score in English; it's too subjective," Emma said, her smile twisting wryly. "Given that, she's naturally the top of her class, last time I checked. We were working on some extracurricular projects before I left; advanced maths and such. She was also making her way through some novels from a secondary school reading list that one of my colleagues was kind enough to lend me." Emma split a scone with a butter knife and coated the two halves with the clotted cream and strawberry jam that the Grangers had provided, allowing some time for her words to sink in.

Ian looked genuinely surprised but Jean may as well have been the cat that caught the canary. The former was the one to speak first. "Is Emma right, Hermione? Are you top of your form?"

Hermione nodded meekly. "Yes, Daddy," she admitted. "I think so."

"Why didn't you tell us?" he asked, his voice incredulous and a little reprimanding.

"I tried to, a couple of times," murmured Hermione, "but..." She trailed off, her expression sheepish on the surface. Behind her discomfort, though, Emma saw hurt and even a spark of anger. Her suspicions confirmed, the teaching assistant came to Hermione's rescue.

"Your daughter is very modest, Dr. Granger—I'm sorry; Ian," she corrected herself with a small grin. "I suspect that she didn't want to sound like she was boasting."

Ian laughed. "Well if she had been, she'd certainly have cause for it! Top of her form. Well done, Hermione."

Jean Granger smiled beatifically at her daughter, her eyes glinting oddly in the light streaming in from the window. "We're so proud of you, darling," she told Hermione, who flushed once more, looking overwhelmed but also warily pleased, as though afraid that she was having an incredible dream that could end at any moment.

But Emma wasn't done. "I dare say, Hermione could easily skip a few years were that an option that her school offered. She's already performing at secondary level." That was actually a bit of an understatement in Emma's opinion, but she knew that she had to tread lightly. "It's a shame that my placement at Hermione's school was so short. Her advanced studies were coming along very nicely while I was there."

Hermione forgot her shyness at the mention of her projects, looking up at her older friend and nodding. "They really were," she said sadly, "but when I asked Mrs Faulkner about continuing them under her supervision, she told me she didn't have the time. It was the same with all of the other teachers, too—I asked around."

Emma's lips pursed. "I'm sorry to hear that, Hermione, but again, I can't exactly say that I'm surprised," the TA responded. Swivelling to face the Doctors Granger, she explained, "Just between us, none of the teachers of Hermione's year were particularly engaged with their students. In ITT circles, there's a name for those kinds: paycheck teachers."

Hermione's parents exchanged a long glance in the ensuing quiet. Emma neatly finished off her scone and then bit into a cucumber sandwich as she watched the cogs turn in the dentists' heads and the silent communication that was occurring via their locked gazes. Hermione was sipping her tea with a thoughtful and slightly baffled expression on her face as she watched the pair of them. She could tell that Emma was up to something, something that involved her parents, but she was clueless as to what that was, exactly. She could only sit and watch the situation unfold.

Eventually, the Grangers ceased their silent exchange, seeming to have come to some kind of resolution.

Jean set her tea cup down and then leaned back in her armchair, her fingers folded contemplatively under chin, elbows perched on armrests.

"Emma," she asked, "how would you feel about potentially continuing your tutelage of our daughter?"

Emmanuelle Wright smiled, victory gleaming off of each one of her pearl-white teeth; and just like that, Hermione understood.


End file.
